


Poe Dameron, Wildflower, Poe Dameron

by psychicmewhealer



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Branding, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Gift Work, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Infection, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Tags Contain Spoilers, Tags May Change, Work In Progress, Young Finn, Young Poe Dameron, and brands are described, at all, but it's technically, but not yet, canon can go die in a hole, if you were looking for canon, it is nowhere to be found, lots of pus, the event of branding doesn't happen but it's referenced, this fic is going to be big on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:15:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28213014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychicmewhealer/pseuds/psychicmewhealer
Summary: New Republic military pilot Poe Dameron is thrilled to be trapped in a star destroyer. It marks his chance to blow up the biggest First Order base in the galaxy before it becomes a threat to the New Republic.Unfortunately, the suspicious Stormtrooper guarding his capsule has other plans. Matters worsen when he says the following:"Poe Dameron, this room is bomb-proof, Poe Dameron."--Or: I can only write one plot and it's really a problem
Relationships: Poe Dameron/Finn
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	1. Nameless Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silameninggal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silameninggal/gifts), [karkedup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/karkedup/gifts).



> TW's are all in tags. Please check those before you read. Safety is paramount!!
> 
>  **If you are struggling with suicidal thoughts:**  
>  You can call 1-800-273-8255 in the US | 1.833.456.4566 in Canada (not Quebec) | 1.866.277.3553 in Quebec | 116-123 in UK & Ireland | text 45645 from 4pm - Midnight ET in Canada
> 
>  **If you are going through a crisis:**  
>  You can text HOME to 741741 (in the US & Canada), 85258 (in the UK), or 50808 (in Ireland)
> 
> Please stay safe!!! You are loved
> 
> * * *
> 
> This fic was inspired by plenty of people, but I gifted it to silameninggal and karkedup just because [_not even the stars_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27279667), an excellent Obikin h/c fic that every human should read, really opened me up to semi-canon Star Wars h/c ship indulgence. I know it's not Obikin, but I hope you guys like it. And yes, a ton of h/c is coming, trust me, it is my addiction. Please be patient with me, my upload schedule is wack.  
> There is basically no adherence to canon in this fic. That is both intentional and unintentional. Unintentional because my canon knowledge is rather limited, but intentional because canon I do know is awful and I hate it.  
> And thanks to silameninggal and karkedup for introducing me to the LLF Comment Project! I had no idea it existed before this and it's basically my dream come true, so thanks.
> 
> Also, this fic is still a rough draft. So there have been edits/retcons made, and there may be more in the future. So far, they have been pretty minor.

New Republic military pilot Poe Dameron's day was growing more excellent by the moment. After he had crashed his X-wing into First Order domain on Jakku, a dash of white appeared in his periphery. The next thing he knew, he held no blaster, and Stormtroopers were dragging him by the forearms across the sterile tiling of a star destroyer. But Poe was giddy on adrenaline. The risks he took and their associated high were why he enlisted. As the troopers threw him into an airlocked capsule, Poe stifled a laugh. They would never see what he had coming. When they would least suspect it, he’d spit out a microgrenade from his mouth, dramatically escape somehow or other, and watch the biggest First Order star destroyer explode by his hand.

He stood in the dead center of the cramped capsule. One trooper faced him, guarding the inside of the room at the door. Strange. Any halfway competent person would know never to guard the inside of an airlocked room. You should only guard from the outside. All guarding the inside would do is get you locked in.

Poe took an extended glance at his guard. The trooper was fishy: more motionless than usual, lacking the fluid movements and breaths that comprised the typical trooper's performed personhood. He smiled. It would be a pleasure to kill him.

The trooper enunciated, "Poe Dameron, this room is bomb-proof, Poe Dameron."

Dammit. Poe’s chest fell. The adrenaline became an ache. His plan would go to waste. He would die before seeing the blood of the First Order on his hands.

The trooper repeated, "Poe Dameron, this room is bomb-proof, Poe Dameron."

"No, I heard you."

"Poe Dameron, this room is bomb-proof, Poe Dameron."

It occurred to Poe that he should pay less attention to what the trooper said and more to how he said it. The message repeated, sandwiched between repetitions of his name…it was basic training all over again. The Stormtrooper was speaking to him like he would to a drill instructor.

This was not normal.

"Poe Dameron, release the explosive, Poe Dameron."

This trooper must know that Poe wouldn't commit fruitless suicide on a whim. So why did he demand it?

Unless —

"Is your intention to die?"

"Poe Dameron, release the explosive, Poe Dameron."

Fine. Killing one trooper was enough. The fascist scum could all get off the earth for all he cared. Poe was glad to give up his life for the Republic. But before he died, Poe needed answers.

"I'll release the explosive if you answer my questions."

"Poe Dameron, release the explosive, Poe Dameron."

"Is your intention to die?"

"Poe Dameron, yes, Poe Dameron."

His eyes widened. He had to know more. Killing the trooper was out of the question.

"Why do you want me to kill you?"

"Poe Dameron, as punishment, Poe Dameron."

What?

Back to basics, Poe thought. What was the most rudimentary question he could ask?

"What's your name?"

The trooper drew a breath.

"If I'm going to kill us, then you're going to die, and I'm going to die, and there's no reason for you not to tell me."

The trooper exhaled. "Poe Dameron, Stormtroopers have no names, Poe Dameron. Stormtroopers have indicators, Poe Dameron."

"Name, indicator, same difference. What's yours?"

"Poe Dameron, FN-2187, Poe Dameron."

Poe froze. "Say that again?"

"Poe Dameron, FN-2187, Poe Dameron."

And Poe guffawed.

* * *

For FN-2187, being asked his name was anathema. Not only was the answer not applicable, it was against the inherent nature of his being. Names were given to officers, commanders, captains. And, of course, to Emperor Snoke, may Force be with him. Troopers, on the other hand, belonged to the Second Empire. They were auxiliaries, disposable to a larger whole. Names were antithetical to their purpose.

Poe Dameron’s laugh made FN-2187’s muscles tense. But after the laugh, FN-2187 picked up abnormal indicators in Poe Dameron’s face. A fallen corner of his lip, a furrow of his forehead, a bite of his tongue inside his mouth. FN-2187 found himself pursing his lips under his helmet.

Poe Dameron turned his head downward and rubbed his eye, which was now red and irritated and leaky. FN-2187 couldn’t turn away. He had only seen this irritation occur within his own eyes. It indicated that, like FN-2187, Poe Dameron was weak. But FN-2187’s own weakness prevailed in his mind, for a burning sensation remained from the brand on his upper arm.

So he distracted himself in the guise of intimidation. “Poe Dameron,” FN-2187 began, “in the reign of the Second Empire, only the Emperor’s name will remain, Poe Dameron.”

Poe Dameron’s visage turned upward, his reddened eyes in full view. “FN-2187, do you really want to die?”

FN-2187 was unnerved by these eyes of his, these glowing, bloody things from which water freely streamed. The fluorescent light of the capsule bounced around in the white and the red and the brown and the black parts. Poe Dameron’s eyes were glistening. They were beautiful. Poe Dameron was weak, and FN-2187 was weak. He was distracted. So he answered, “Poe Dameron...no, Poe Dameron.”

* * *

Poe didn’t know when he started crying. It could have been hours before this, or days. But it couldn’t have been when he learned that trooper’s indicator. It couldn’t have. Stormtroopers weren’t people, and this guard knew it better than he did. So why did he find his face flushing with blood and water? 

There was no man behind the mask. He was sure of it.

“FN-2187, before I kill you, I want you to show me your face.”

“Poe Dameron, yes, Poe Dameron.” FN-2187 twisted off his vacuum-sealed helmet.

New Republic intelligence maintained that stormtroopers were all clones of some copper-skinned Mandalorian. But FN-2187’s face was longer than the Mandalorian’s, and its proportions held a more statuesque quality. Sweat layered over his skin, which was the same haunting deep brown of Poe’s eyes. FN-2187 couldn’t have been more than a year or two younger than Poe, some twenty-two standard. Fluorescent light glistened on nicks on his sharp jaw and bald scalp from dry shaving. When Poe attempted to look in the trooper’s elusive eyes, FN-2187 rose his chin a pinch higher.

There was a man under the mask. What a wildflower he was. 

“Poe Dameron,” FN-2187 exhaled, his head almost parallel to the floor, “you must kill this trooper, Poe Dameron.”

Poe forced a laugh. “No.”

“Poe Dameron, if you do not kill this trooper, this trooper will kill you and then this trooper, Poe Dameron.”

“FN-2187, you don’t want to die. I don’t want to die either. Put on your helmet and help us get out, and maybe then I’ll kill you.”

“Poe Dameron, yes, Poe Dameron.”


	2. Door Divots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring:
> 
>   * homoerotic piggyback ride,
>   * badly written violence,
>   * blood,
>   * pus, and
>   * awkward third person phrasings.
> 


Was FN-2187 going to die?

Despite the trooper’s pleas to be killed and his burning anticipation of his death, the trooper was unsure if Poe Dameron would truly finish him off. Poe Dameron was a natural enemy of the Second Empire; a weak member of a weak Republic destined for collapse. All Stormtroopers were Poe Dameron’s natural enemies, just as all enemies of the Second Empire were FN-2187’s. Poe Dameron would surely kill him.

Yet when FN-2187 sealed his helmet, Poe Dameron's facial indicators grew sallow. The ends of Poe Dameron’s lips descended. His hand fell to his chest. Would Poe Dameron not desire a complete annihilation of this trooper? Vulnerable skin to bomb? Why was Poe Dameron lengthening this trooper’s sentence? Why were Poe Dameron’s indicators so inconsistent?

* * *

Poe found himself longing for the wildflower’s face.

But if he wanted to get out alive ― which, for the moment, he did ― he needed this Stormtrooper alive for a little longer. That would require his helmet to stay on.

Poe let his neurons bounce around his brain. "FN-2187," he blurted, "shoot at the entrance."

"Poe Dameron, yes, Poe Dameron." FN-2187 made an about face towards the capsule doors, cocked his blaster, and fired it where the capsule doors met. The divot ate the blasts without a scratch.

"That clearly isn't working." Poe stroked his 5 o'clock shadow, leaning his elbow on the wall. “Ooh! What if we fake an explosion?" He circled around the capsule. "Make a lot of stomps and booms, then someone might open the door? No, that wouldn't work. I don't know if this room is soundproof. Oh, of course it is. If the room is explosion-proof, then it has to be sound-proof, doesn't it? Obviously. I’m dumb. Could we peel our way out of here? This is bomb-proof, of course not!” Poe gesticulated at the floor. “How do we ― how do I get out?”

FN-2187 fired again through the divot. And again, and again, and again. The divot absorbed each blast, making a _thump, thump, thump._

“FN-2187? Cease fi―”

A plastic hand gripped his neck.

Poe gagged. His head flew backward, and a little ball the size of his uvula crawled forward in his tongue. They didn’t want him to asphyxiate, he realized. They wanted him to spit out the bomb. Then, they would push him in, close the door, and wait for Poe and the guard to explode.

Wait, close the door?

Poe evaluated his position in the capsule. He faced its back end, and in his peripheral vision, he noticed the entrance walls. He had been pulled between the doors.

In entering, the enemy let him out.

Poe eyed the door-divots. He could allow himself to be choked, lunge forward, and die with a body count of the whole ship. Or he could break free of the chokehold, leaving him a better chance of being alive, but dependent on his guard to get him out. A few minutes ago, Poe would have already followed through with the first option. He would have even followed through with the attacker’s plan for a taste of First Order blood. But something, maybe cowardice or curiosity, overtook him. He wanted to stay alive.

The bomb could wait.

“FN-2187―” he managed ― “I’ll let your fellow troopers kill you. Hold the doors.”

“Poe Dameron, yes, Poe Dameron.”

The trooper’s hands were occupied with Poe’s neck, which left Poe a fighting advantage. Poe thrust his legs on his attacker’s abdomen, crushing him, and swiped his blaster from his holster. With a few blasts, the attacker was reduced from moving to unmoving plastic.

Poe whispered to FN-2187, “Shut up. Stand still. Keep opening the door.” FN-2187 swallowed a “Poe Dameron, yes, Poe Dameron.” He melted across the entrance, becoming a bilateral door-stopper to split the divots.

Poe raised his head. “Yo! If you shoot me, I’ll spit the bomb!” A flood of white armor gushed towards the entrance. Hundreds of red dots materialized on the white of Poe’s uniform.

Had this been a few minutes before, he would have smirked and ended it. Instead, Poe stretched his philtrum into his mouth.

“One. Two. Three,” he whispered. He leaped onto FN-2187’s shoulders, shooting the barrage from above.

* * *

A weight fell on FN-2187’s shoulders, and then off. Poe Dameron whispered another order ― “Open fire!” ― and FN-2187 performed. Possibly, FN-2187’s firing would incite the platoon to kill him?

No. This trooper does not think of plans. This trooper follows orders.

Even after FN-2187 opened fire, blasts flew bilaterally above him. The platoon targeted FN-2187’s shoulders, and Poe Dameron targeted them from above.

As a good trooper, FN-2187 would never admit this, but he ached. Poe Dameron’s foot weighed on his shoulder, which weighed on his upper arm. It singed. It burned. He bit his lip. How dare he remind himself of his weakness. He continued carrying out Poe Dameron’s order and kept shooting.

Stormtroopers fell in droves. One fell on the other, falling on the other. The collective plastic melted on the expansive tile flooring. Nevertheless, the platoon kept spurting from all directions, shooting at Poe Dameron. Blasts from both sides overtook FN-2187’s vision.

He blinked. The entrance was clear.

“FN-2187―” Poe Dameron jumped off his shoulders and onto the tile outside the capsule ― “where’s the dock?” 

This was not an order. It was a question. FN-2187 would follow Poe Dameron’s order to be quiet.

“Listen,” Poe Dameron turned to FN-2187, “I’m gonna run like a lunatic until you tell me where it is.”

Poe Dameron did not do so. His facial indicators altered several times, and then he said, “Oh, yes. Take me to it.”

FN-2187 nodded. He bustled into the body of the base, and Poe Dameron trailed behind. FN-2187 is careful not to think he would “lead.” Poe Dameron would lead FN-2187, eventually, to his death. Somehow. Possibly. Hopefully.

No, this trooper does not think of the future! This trooper follows orders.

The base was sterile and covered from head to toe with creamy tiling, which clashed with the white of FN-2187’s uniform. Surely, in the age of the Second Empire, this discrepancy in color would disappear. FN-2187 dashed sixty meters straight, hit a corner, and turned left. After some forty-six paces, darkened silver interrupted the cream tiling. FN-2187 leaned his hand on the silver. Two slab doors drifted apart.

Poe Dameron scuttled behind FN-2187 into the elevator. FN-2187 pressed the button that aptly read DOCK. He stood where the elevator doors met, facing its industrial metal walls. A Stormtrooper appeared behind Poe Dameron. Poe Dameron knocked out the intruder with the back of his borrowed blaster.

Open. A second platoon surrounded the elevator. “You know what to do,” Poe Dameron whispered.

FN-2187 did not know what to do. He was left with no orders except a best guess. So he braced for Poe Dameron’s landing on his shoulders, and the blasts, and the blasts. Not the weight and the burning, for a good trooper does not think of these sensations. But he was prepared for the blasts, and the clouding of his vision, and the collective plastic melting.

Poe Dameron jumped off of FN-2187’s shoulders and bolted forward, towards the next empty TIE fighter. FN-2187, making his best guess, followed. The dock’s floor was made of that same cream tiling. Its walls and ceiling felt miles away. FN-2187’s lungs floated in his ribcage as though he had already entered deep space.

“You know how to fly these?” he panted.

This was not an order. It was a question. FN-2187 would follow Poe Dameron’s order to be quiet, and his implicit order to keep running.

“You can talk.”

“Poe Dameron, yes, Poe Dameron,” FN-2187 panted back. This was a partial lie. FN-2187 was vaguely acquainted with the controls. He knew his left from his right. However, he was a trooper. Stormtroopers’ domain was planet surfaces. His recent failure had only cemented his inability to perform the task that he guessed would be asked of him.

“I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but I need you to fly us out of here.”

* * *

Poe forgot to add “and then I’ll kill you.”

“Poe Dameron, yes, Poe Dameron.”

The cockpit fit one pilot. Poe jumped from the hatch on top of the ship, through the cockpit, into the TIE fighter’s underbelly. Unless you were a spy, the ability to fly a TIE fighter in the New Republic military was either disgraceful or suspicious. How much more disgraced was Poe that he had to get flown by a Stormtrooper in one of these. Poe sighed. He had more important matters to worry about.

“Get us to Jakku,” Poe ordered. 

“Poe Dameron, yes, Poe Dameron” arrived from the cockpit. 

It looked evil in the underbelly, with all the black metal hexagons that made up its interior. The ship smelt it, too, like stale, crunchy sweat, or a cold gym. It would be a couple hours. He’d get used to it.

A glint of red approached the corner of Poe’s eye.

FN-2187 had failed to mention the pair of TIE fighters trailing them. Goddammit. Poe moaned. “FN-2187―”

“Poe Dameron, yes, Poe Dameron.”

He didn’t know how to fire from the TIE fighter without starting a skirmish. He didn’t have a plan.

Wait. He did.

Poe shuffled through a black backpack in the corner of the ship.

“Turn towards those TIE fighters.”

“Poe Dameron, yes, Poe Dameron.”

Poe slipped into a TIE fighter pilot uniform from the bag. He couldn’t look at himself, but he imagined he became indistinguishable from the bad guys.

Three, two, one.

He shuffled up the ladder to the cockpit. A little ball rolled from Poe’s velum forward into his gloved hand. It flashed red and beeped. Poe donned his helmet.

Oh no. He forgot a major detail.

“Tell me if your uniform doubles as an enviro-suit.”

“Poe Dameron, yes, Poe Dameron.”

Beep. Phew.

“Open the hatch.”

Beep.

“Poe Dameron, yes, Poe Dameron.”

Beep.

He threw the grenade. Granules of debris shot out of each trailing TIE fighter into each other. Internal combustion followed, and the ships exploded in sisterhood.

Poe popped back into the ship. “Close it!”

He heard no answer.

He closed the hatch himself. A black rag with the First Order insignia was under him. The pilot’s seat was empty. Poe still lcouldn’t fly the thing, but he knew his left from his right. So he reversed the TIE fighter’s course from the direction of the TIE fighters towards Jakku. He removed his enviro-suit.

A Stormtrooper, a wildflower, with one arm bare, sprawled on the floor of the cockpit, covering the ladder to the belly of the ship. On his right forearm bloomed a volcano of pus with spatterings of blood. 

The trooper ― the wildflower ― the  _ man _ saved his life. The least he could do was to clear away the pus. Poe couldn’t find a sterile handkerchief, so he took a microfiber cloth from the backpack and wiped away his bubbling.

It was a brand.

A First Order insignia, in bright pink, puffed on FN-2187’s skin. Branded text above it read, IF LOST. Circled below it: RETURN TO FIRST ORDER FOR ELIMINATION.

Poe’s heart skipped a beat.

Under that brand, he saw another, smaller one. He squinted to make out its characters blooming out of his skin.

In small characters he saw  _ FN-2187. _

He was going to kill this man for existing. But the First Order got to this man first, and he saved his life. Here he was, reduced from a blossoming wildflower to a plastic indicator. As though the brand disappeared when Poe turned away, he took another glance.

_ FN-2187. _

Poe from a few minutes ago would never have forgiven him for thinking this, but there was no way in hell present Poe was returning the wildflower to the First Order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't expect all my chapters to be this long. I usually struggle for 1k/chapter. This is 1.8k and it was A LOT to bring it to life. Next chapter will hopefully just be like 1k of healing.
> 
> I am SORRY the h/c hasn't happened yet and it's just hurt BUT PLEASE TRUST ME I got through this chapter so the next one would be h/c from concentrate
> 
> I know the internals of the TIE fighter are all super wrong, but they're super inconsistent in canon too, and also canon can go die in a rotten hole so I don't care

**Author's Note:**

> [Say hi on Tumblr, if you want!](https://psychicmewhealer.tumblr.com)
> 
> * * *
> 
> **If you are struggling with suicidal thoughts:**  
>  You can call 1-800-273-8255 in the US | 1.833.456.4566 in Canada (not Quebec) | 1.866.277.3553 in Quebec | 116-123 in UK & Ireland | text 45645 from 4pm - Midnight ET in Canada
> 
>  **If you are going through a crisis:**  
>  You can text HOME to 741741 (in the US & Canada), 85258 (in the UK), or 50808 (in Ireland)
> 
> Please stay safe!!! You are loved
> 
> * * *
> 
> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * Constructive criticism
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> [LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/post/170952243543/now-presenting-the-llf-comment-builder-beta)  
> This author replies to comments.  
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I’m reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example), feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


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